Mine
by Personification of Fluff
Summary: Short stories about various aspects of Kaeleer and Tereille: Protocol, Guardians, etc.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Mine

**Author:** Personification of Fluff

**Rating:** T

**Disclaimer:** This is the result of me rereading a BJT book for what has got to be the billionth time and finally taking some advice and writing a piece of fan fiction for it. Do I own it? Not in the slightest. Am I making money off of it? I wish. Is the BJT an indulgence for me and writing a fan fic for it is the only way I can get some the addiction out, like a reader's AA meeting? You betcha.

**Summary: **Hopefully a selection of short stories about different aspects of the BJT realm: Protocol, nature of Warlord Princes, castest, blood and landen relations, etc. The first one is about Saetan and Sylvia, because it kills me that Saetan doesn't get a happy ending, and he's probably my favorite character. He needs a giant hug.

_Mine_

_Part 1: Guardians_

For Emily.

_Daemon was four when he was beaten up by an older boy. At four, he didn't have the strength or muscle—or the skill with Craft—to be able to defend himself. When Daemon dragged himself home after the fight, Manny had taken care of the split lip and had given him that night's steak to put over his blackened eye._

_When Saetan found out what had happened, his anger was fierce and sudden. A pillow in his study exploded into singed ash before he could put a leash on his anger. "Why wasn't I informed immediately when he came home?" he demanded in sepulchral voice of barely contained range. He knew he couldn't find the boy that had hurt his son and return the favour, but oh, how he wanted to!_

_Manny was shaken. Her fear left a sour taste in his mouth. She wasn't the first woman that had stood in fear before him, and it always killed him a little to know she wouldn't be the last. _Everything has a price,_ he reminded himself. The cost of being the only Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince in the history of the Realms was that there would be others who were in fear of him… but he damn well wished that it wouldn't be the people who worked for him, the people with whom he had to interact on a daily basis._

_"He's ashamed. He didn't want me to tell you, because he's ashamed. He thinks he should have done better."_

_"He was beaten up by a boy almost twice his age! There was no way he could have done better!"_

_"Your son doesn't feel that way."_

_Saetan nodded and went to go and talk to his son. The first thing he did was scoop the boy up in his arms. It pained his heart when he heard Daemon beginning to sniffle, like he was afraid that his father was going to go and take him outside for a spanking… or something worse. Instead, Saetan carried him up the stairs and into his bedroom, and then put Daemon into Saeten's own bed._

_Daemon looked up at him with wide yellow eyes. There were the same color as his father's, but without the knife-sharp edge to them. Saetan wished his son would never need to become that deadly, but it was futile. He was a Warlord Prince. It was in his nature that he would learn to rise to the killing edge. Saetan's job was to ensure that when Daemon was old enough to find himself on the killing fields, he would know enough to survive._

_"You're not mad at me?" he sniffled._

_Saetan's lips remained pressed into a stern frown, but he settled beside Daemon on the bed after tucking the thick comforter firmly around his son after using Craft to vanish his dirty, grass-stained clothes._

_"I'm mad that you got into a fight that you had no hope of possibly winning. You need to learn how to pick and choose your battles. When you are an adult, if you pick a fight with an opponent that eclipses your power, you ought to be prepared to die for making the mistake."_

_His son's eyes widened. Then he looked confused. "You would have won."_

_"No, I wouldn't have. Not if it was the same odds." He paused. "What made you decide to fight him, anyway?" Was his son beginning to turn into a Warlord Prince earlier than Saetan had expected?_

_"He made fun of Luciv__ar! He called him a bastard, and a half-breed, and fu…"_

_"I get the idea," Saetan soothingly, before Daemon could recite every name the boy had called Lucivar. Daemon leaned into his father's hand, letting the Black Widow stroke his dark hair. _

_Daemon's small little body nuzzled up against the long length of Saetan's torso, and he wished he could stay this way forever. He would be proud of the man his son would one day become, but he cherished this time now, when his son still needed his father's psychic scent to feel safe. _

"_If __that's what he was calling Lucivar, I think that you had the right idea trying to beat him up. Maybe we need to just need to teach you _how_ to fight." His son's eyes lit up. "But not today." Saetan called in his glasses and a book, amused at the way Daemon warred between being excited at story time, and wanting to curl up and take a nap as he listened to his father's voice echo in his belly. "Today, I think we need a story to take your mind off of the black eye and sore jaw you'll have tomorrow morning. Now, which one shall we read?"_

"_Both?" Daemon asked with hope._

_Saetan's lips twitched into the faintest hint of a smile. "Yes… yes, I think we might just have time for both."_

_

* * *

_

Saetan SaDiablo, the Steward of the Dark Court, assistant historian of the Keep, and High Lord of Hell awoke with the setting of the sun and gasped from the strength of his dreams. He blinked, clearing the sleep—or the semblance of the sleep Guardians require while the sun is up—from his eyes. For a moment, he could feel his son's four-year old body pressed against his torso again, eyes shining gold with hope.

_Memories…_ All that Saetan had left were the memories. He smiled faintly when he recalled that wasn't true. There was Witch, there was Daemonar, there were still his sons… But sometimes, it was getting hard to make it to the next day. Oh, the Keep kept him busy enough, but he lived for the times when his sons came to visit, when his grandchildren came to visit, when Gray and Cassidy came to visit, when Karla visited him, when Surreal visited…

He lived for those visits, and when the visitors left, he felt empty. Oh, there would be amusement, too. Days later he would still find himself chuckling over Jaenelle's latest explosion, or the trouble that Daemonar was causing in town as he began to challenge his father, and he would spend hours tending to the plants Cassidy and Gray sent him to keep his personal rooms from forgetting that earth was more than just the mountain which was his home.

But deep down, he was saddened. He didn't want to just hear an account of how Marian had sent Lucifar down to fetch an overly intoxicated Daemonar from the Tavern, only to have both of them come staggering home together, piss drunk.

He wanted to have been there himself.

*Saetan? Are you awake?* The message come from a male-to-male thread. Geoffrey.

*I just woke up. Is something the matter?* There had been nothing urgent in Geoffrey's psychic tone, but Saetan wondered why he would be needed so soon after he had just woken up.

*Nothing urgent. The High Lord of Hell is needed at his leisure.*

Saetan frowned and began to dress himself. If the High Lord was needed, then it was close enough to an emergency. In his haste to get dressed, he put his pants on backwards before he realized they were going on the wrong way. "Mother Night," he hissed, beginning again. To ease himself, he began pestering Geoffrey for more information. Was it one of the children? Were they okay? If the High Lord was needed now, then how long would it before the Executioner would be needed? *Is it one of the children?*

*No. Really, Seatan, take your time. She's not going anywhere, and the message says that she's being well taken care of."

*She?*

*Protocol, Seatan.*

The not-too-subtle reminder gave him room to breathe. This was _not_ an emergency. It was _not_ going to be one of the children waiting for him. The person would be shown courtesy, be provided food and drink if they needed it, and thus would give him time to ready himself, physically and mentally, for whatever would be needed. He didn't have to rush getting ready, and he could prepare himself for the battlefield ahead.

Seatan headed for the bath.

* * *

After his shower, the transition from the Keep's historian to the High Lord of Hell was almost instantaneous and fluid. He had been the High Lord even when he walked among the living fifty thousand years ago. It was ingrained into him, a part of his very nature—the nature of the black jewel that he wore.

It felt good being in Hell again. His old study brought back memories of when Jaenelle had been a little girl and had come visiting. Of his sons playing chess on the board in the corner while he taught the daughter of his soul craft. Of Andulvar Yaslana. Of plants suspiciously dying from the overpowered healing draughts they had dumped into the pots, and of Winsol gifts brightly wrapped awaiting Jaenelle's approval.

The woman waiting for him brought back a flood of memories as well. He took one look at that face framed by dark grey hair and the twinkle held back in those eyes.

_Mine._

Sylvia, the Queen of Halaway. Well, the old Queen of Halaway. He had been at her funeral last week.

For a moment he felt confusion, and then his eyes narrowed to mask the feeling of betrayal. He knew what she was. She hadn't made the transition to demon-dead. No, she was a Guardian, like him. It meant that, like Cassandra, she had lied to him. Centuries ago, the Black-Jeweled witch Cassandra had made Saetan think she had died a natural death, and had let him continue thinking that until the appearance of Jaenelle had caused their paths to cross again and he learned she had become a Guardian.

Judging from the way Sylvia looked hurt, she knew what he had been thinking. Sylvia had never been a fan of Cassandra, and he suddenly wondered if perhaps Saetan's tenuous relationship with the red-headed witch hadn't had something to do with it. The knowledge that _her_ feelings were offended made him angrier. He had a _right_ to be angry, damn it.

_The casket was slowly being lowered into the ground. Saetan hated why he had to be there, but he was glad that the sky was overcast, or else he doubted that he would have been able to attend the funeral. He looked around. Jaenelle looked apologetic and polite. If she was going to cry or break down over Sylvia's death, she would mourn with Daemon. Daemon, of course, was stoic. He hadn't known Sylvia as well as Saetan had, but he'd always admired her for the spunkiness she shared with Jaenelle._

_Sylvia's children and grandchildren looked the worst. Her oldest grandson looked to him hopefully. He saw the question in his eyes. Has my mother made the transition to demon-dead?_

_Saetan lowered his head. If she had, he would have known, and she hadn't. She must have gone on to rejoin the darkness. All that was left of Sylvia in the world was in the closed casket being lowered into the ground. With that knowledge, he felt his heart sinking again._

_Sylvia had been his. Jaenelle was his too, the Queen of Ebon Askavi, but that relationship was different. She was the daughter of his soul. His job serving was to guide her, to help her bear the weight of the mountain of Ebon Askavi. Sylvia had belonged him in a different way. _

_He had loved her._

_He had loved her for being a good queen, for being a good mother, for the way she would encourage Jaenelle subtly. For the way doing the latter would step on his toes. For the arguments they would have about what was considered proper attire for a young Queen. For the way she dealt with the Coven. For the way she made him smile._

_For the way she trusted him. For the way she loved him back. For the way that she could see him rise to the killing edge and not fear him._

_And now she was gone, a whisper in the darkness. _

_How many others would he wait to see put into the ground? How many other friends would he guide into being demon-dead? First Morton, now Sylvia. His eyes flickered to where his waif stood, leaning slightly on Daemon and entirely avoiding his gaze._

_Jaenelle. She was from one of the short-lived races. One day, it would be he, Lucivar, and Daemon standing watching her grave being dug, then covered with soil. It would be they who cut their wrists and muttered the words of ritual that would promise to keep her memory alive. And it would be him who would comfort Daemon and Lucivar when she was gone._

_So he continued to hang on, even though Sylvia was gone, the first Queen other than Jaenelle to see him stand at the killing edge and not fear it, because his sons would need him when they lost _their_ Queen…_

He frowned at Sylvia, and he moved to his desk. Sitting behind it would give him the feeling of comfort he needed to see this through. He hoped.

She showed no signs of speaking, so he settled into his old chair, rested his elbows on the desk, steepled his fingers, and began. His gold eyes were lazy. Fools and idiots would think it was an expression of laziness, but Sylvia knew that it wasn't. He wasn't merely hurt, he was furious. If she made an error…

Then she squashed the thought. If she made an error, he would get mad and he would yell. If he was beyond that anger, he would speak quietly with words that would rip her heart to pieces. A piece of furniture or two might even find itself turned into ash by witchfire if he needed to work off his anger with Craft. Maybe the Keep would have a new supply of firewood if he needed to work it off physically, but he would not hurt her. He would never use his Jewels on her. He might rise to the killing edge, and he was sure as hell going cold already, but he would follow Protocol.

Because this was _Saetan_.

"The secrets on how to become a Guardian have been lost for centuries. So how did…" He stopped and he groaned. Then the cold fury returned, and this time it wasn't just directed at just Sylvia. His daughter had stood there at the ceremony knowing that the grave had been empty, knowing that Sylvia was making the transition to Gaurdian! And she had let _him_ believe that she was really dead! "Jeanelle."

Sylvia nodded. "And because Jaenelle knows, you can rest assured that Daemon knows, too."

"And your family?"

"They knew. They didn't understand why I felt the need to do this, but they knew what was going on."

Saetan felt like his heart was breaking. "So then the only person at the funeral that didn't know was…"

Her shoulders sagged. "You, Saetan."

His name, in that voice! He never thought he would hear it again. It brought him back, just a little. He _was_ relieved that she was a Guardian, that she was sitting across from him with a distinct psychic scent, speaking, tangible… but the pang of betrayal was still too sharp for him to forgive her.

"Why not me?"

"Jaenelle wasn't sure if it would work or not. So if it didn't work, and I didn't become a Guardian, then…"

"Then I would never know," he finished for her. _I would never have known you tried to become a Guardian and failed. I wouldn't have felt like I lost you, or like I was responsible._ He arched an eyebrow. She frowned at him, answering his unspoken question. She would never have lied to him like Cassandra had lied to him. She had lied to him only to protect him from being hurt if she failed.

Which led to a whole new set of questions. The Guardians were not like the demon-dead. They didn't die of natural causes and then make the transition. They elected to become Guardians while they were still living. That translated to only one question.

"Why?"

Sylvia sighed. "Why did I decide to become a Guardian, you mean? I felt like… I _knew _it was my time to go. My children are all grown up, and I've given time to my grandchildren." She paused a moment to let those arguments sink in, and to give her other words more impact. "Because if I kept living any longer, I would too old to be of any use to you."

There was a stirring, a hunger, deep within him. It wasn't sexual, but it was possessive. The memory of what they had once been before, and the acknowledgement that he sometimes longed to have it again. Saetan looked at her again—_really_ looked. Her hair had gone grey. Not the silver of his own hair, but slate-grey. There were laugh lines around her wilful mouth, and wrinkles in the corner of her eyes, reminding him of all the times her beautiful eyes had closed with delighted laughter. She was older, yes, but still beautiful.

But Guardians did not have those kinds of urges…

Sylvia frowned at him. "Don't look at me like that, Seatan. I apparently chose my words badly. I didn't mean I would be of no use to you sexually." She sighed and crossed her leg, resting her hands on her knee. Saetan frowned when he saw she was wearing pants. Even dead, she couldn't wear a skirt or a dress? She smiled kindly when she spotted his frown. "I meant this: Draca and Geoffrey won't be enough for you, Seatan. When you have a bad day, who will you go to when you need a hug? Or a back rub? When you do go out—because we both know that you happen to have the same indulgences as Daemon—who will go and enjoy the theatre with you?"

"I do not need hugs," Seatan hissed.

"But you will. I'm the first Saetan. Within four more decades, there will be others. A lot of others, Saetan." She rose from her chair to stand in front of his desk and reach across it to touch his hand. "I wanted to do this because I want to help you. This way we have time to become comfortable with each other again."

The feelings of her fingertips on his skin sent another bolt into him. He turned his hand around to close his fingers around her and then reconsidered, sliding his hand out from under hers. He pretended not to see her flinch at the rejection.

She reached into her inside jacket pocket and brought out a creased letter, tossing it on to the desk in front of him. "After the storm, you retreated into the Keep. I didn't fight you on it because I knew it was what you needed at the time. I thought that maybe you would eventually miss our friendship, but you never came back. When we saw each other in passing, you were polite, so damned polite!"

"I wasn't whole-"

"_I_ didn't give a damn about you as a _whole_!" she snapped. "_You _were the one who didn't want to be around me because you were worried that no longer being able to perform sexually would cause us to break! That you couldn't be there as my lover, I understood. Don't you see, Saetan? Yes, Mother Night, I missed you as my lover and there hasn't been anyone else but you since then, but I missed my _friend_ more. The man who would talk to me about raising the Coven one parent to another, the man that would accompany me to the theatre," she let out a choked laugh as her emotions over came her, "the man who knew my wardrobe better than I did."

She wiped her eyes and looked at him across the table. Saetan watched the tears fall and had to fight the urge to cross to her and take her into his arms. Those tears were his fault, and seeing her cry was bringing back the cold fury, this time directed at himself.

"I did this because I wanted my friend back. The man who could see past the title, the man who taught my sons with the same dignity as his taught his own sons. I missed the lover, but it was the friend I loved first… and never stopped missing."

He reached out and touched the worn letter lying on his desk. He could still remember every single word. He could still remember the way it had wrenched his heart to write it, to give her up because she was living, and he was not.

Saetan's voice was soft with gentleness when he spoke. The memories of his conversation with Daemon were still fresh in his mind. Pick and choose your battles. Sylvia had let him win, once, and now she had given up everything she had left in order to be with him when he would need her. Because she was right. In a few more decades, there would be people had had watched grow sitting in the chair across from him: Aaron, Kardeen, Kalush, Karla, Cassidy… Jaenelle.

He would be there for Daemon and Lucifar. She would be there for him. When he came home, when he needed a sanctuary, she would be there helping to bear his pain.

Her expression was open and vulnerable as she stood there, waiting for his reaction.

She had picked her battle well. How could he turn her down when she was standing there, when she had stepped up to the battlefield for him?

Those gold eyes warmed as he looked up at her. "I never stopped missing you, either."

Then she was suddenly in his arms, hugging him tightly. Her psychic scent surrounded him, made him feel safe and whole. His lips were on hers, tasting her, and she was weeping from the sweet familiarity of it, but it went no further as she rested her cheek against his shoulder and breathed in deeply. She relaxed against him, and his heart rejoiced. Sylvia. Sweet, sassy Sylvia who didn't fear him, and found comfort within the dark psychic scent of a Black-Jewelled Warlord Prince.

_Mine._


	2. Price

**AN:** Everything has a price. Sometimes the price can be much steeper than one is willing to pay. And when actions happen before people think of the consequenes, lives can be ruined.

But don't worry, I gave it a happy ending.

_Part 1: Price_

* * *

The court settled in silence. The people present seemed to waver between staring at the young lady with looks of regret, and looking at the man on trial, with expressions of rage and pity. Whispers of 'they were so promising' slithered about the room as people shook their head.

Karla entered, resplendent despite needing the assistance of a cane to make it to the seat at the head of the room. Peaks of white-blonde hair made it appear as if she were wearing a crown despite the fact that she was dressed solemnly. The Glacian people always said that their queen was always solemn, but it was never uttered as a complaint. They loved Karla—Karla the Fair, Karla the Brave.

The Warlord Prince on trial hung his head, already knowing how the trial was going to end. It only took a moment for him to compose himself, and then he lifted it again. His eyes meant the Queen's blue ones. There was no mercy in those eyes, no leniency. But there was no hate, either. In fact, the Warlord thought that in that steady gaze, he might have even seen a bit of regret… and understanding.

"Warlord Hunter, you are charged with the rape of Deanna Erinkin. " Karla's voice rang out loud and clear over the hushed room. Hunter could feel the eyes of everyone on the room watching him to gauge his reaction. He steeled himself so there would be none. "How do you plead?"

Hunter took a deep breath, and he answered her.

* * *

Lucivar Yaslana met Deanna a few days before, when Karla brought her to Jeanelle to see if there was anything that might be done for her. They were sitting around the breakfast table, and he was trying to be discreet as he studied her. Deanna sipped at her tea like a polite young lady. Her hair was neatly brushed and styled, and she was dressed properly. She ate by cutting her meat up into little pieces—too little, he noted, like she was trying to be overly polite.

And her psychic scent said that she was a broken witch. She didn't look like Tersa, didn't act like Tersa, but her scent said _broken_.

He looked to Daemon and Jaenelle to gauge their reactions. His brother's face was serene, but the faint lifting of one eyebrow revealed that he was curious, too. Jaenelle's brows were drawn together, like she was puzzled, and she and Karla spoke in hushed tones as they bent their heads together. They looked very much like he'd always remembered: two Black Widows, hunched over a puzzle as they tried to take it apart.

Or, as it sometimes happened, trying to find a way to explain a bit of Craft to Jaenelle so she could do it, too. They had never succeeded at explaining to her how to summon her shoes.

*Can't they be a little discreet over the fact that this girl _is _the puzzle?* he asked his brother on a male-to-male thread. Daemon's lips loosened a little in a smile.

*I don't think she's noticed yet,* he pointed out.

Lucivar took another look at the girl. Despite the fact that it was blatantly obvious Karla and Jaenelle were discussing Deanna, the girl had not noticed. She just kept sawing at her the slice of last night's ham, fried for breakfast, into neat little rectangles and sipping her tea. Lucivar suddenly wondered if she was even tasting the tea, or if her body was just set on automatic.

*How did it happen?*

Daemon shrugged. There was nothing subtle over the action, but if Jaenelle didn't know that he and Lucivar were talking, then Lucivar was a monkey's uncle.

*I'm sure the ladies will tell us when they are ready.*

As if she knew their conversation was done, Jaenelle's eyes closed for a moment, and the change settled over her. When her eyes opened again, Lucivar found himself looking at the Queen of Ebon Askavi again. Oh, she was still Jaenelle, and the power was still gone, but it was Witch that needed to make this decision. She looked at Daemon and rose; he followed her after the barest hint of hesitation, so quickly it could have been a single entity leaving in two bodies.

The door shut behind them, leaving Lucivar feeling grumpy and bitter. He looked to Karla, whom he always knew could handle a fight even with her cane, and tried his best to hide it from the girl. "What the hell was all that about?"

Karla nodded at the other girl. "Deanna lives in the capital of Glacia. She's supposed to have been going through her Virgin Night this week."

"And clearly she's not going to be anymore because someone _already_ helped her through it." He paused so she could explain what the problem was. When she didn't he prompted her further. "So why bring her to Jaenelle? She doesn't seem to be as lost as Tersa was. Does she need to be brought out of the abyss?"

"No…" Karla glanced at the girl. "No, I don't think so. She's not in the abyss yet. The problem is that the punishment for something like this is…"

"Death," he hissed, leaning towards her across the table. He was gripping his fork like a dagger and prepared himself for stabbing it into the table if Karla gave him anything other than a straight answer. "You find the son of a bitch who broke her and you sentence him to death. You cut off his head. You use Craft. If you're particularly angry, I can ask Jaenelle to teach you to punish him the way that she did the men who tried to rape Marian."

Karla's eyes fluttered. He recognized the same thing that had crossed Jaenelle's face, and he could finally put a name to it. Regret. "When you and Marian first started living together, the rut caught you off guard, did it not?" He nodded. "But Marian was a fully grown adult. What if it caught you off guard and Marian hadn't undergone her Virgin Night yet?"

"Find someone else!"

"There isn't anyone else. You two are alone, it comes on all of a sudden, and there's the woman who's caught your attention—and your love-alone and unguarded." The cold blue eyes focused solely on him. She spoke carefully and deliberately. "What would you do?"

He held her gaze a moment longer and then looked away, cursing. He knew exactly what he would have done. When the rut came on, sense went out the window. Oh, it could be developed, as it had become with he and Marian. Lucivar would no longer snarl when Marian left the room during the rut, or put on a robe to keep herself warm because he knew that she wasn't trying to leave him, she was just cold or hungry. And when the problem was warmth, well, the bed could be _very_ warm…

Lucivar cursed and stabbed his fork into his ham. He'd lost his appetite.

Karla frowned. "Now you see why I wanted Jaenelle's opinion. He was supposed to be her escort while she was visiting a friend. They were in the inn when it happened."

"He knocked on the door," Deanna interrupted. She was staring in no one in particular, but she was looking at them. "I answered it because I didn't think it would be… wrong. He had this glazed look in his eyes, and he pushed his way into the room. Then he shut the door and he locked it." She suddenly smiled and blushed deeply. "And then he kissed me and I wasn't scared anymore."

Lucivar couldn't help but ask, "Why didn't you call for help? He broke you."

She shrugged. "I don't feel broken. It was scary, and it hurt a little, but I don't feel broken. I can only do basic Craft, and I won't be working in someone's Court, but that's the life mother had always wanted for me, not what I wanted for myself."

"And what do you want for yourself?"

This time there was no blush with the smile that spread across her face. "I want to cook. You don't need to be able to use more than basic Craft for cooking. Too much power ruins the taste of everything."

"Wait, let me get this straight. Some idiot…"

"Deanna's mother," Karla interrupted.

"Some _idiot mother_ sent her daughter off with a _Warlord Prince_ for an escort, and now the girl is broken. The problem is that they're in love with each other, so she's arguing it was consensual…"

"It _was_," Deanna hissed.

"You were underage, which means it's _never_ consensual,"Lucivar snapped back. "The punishment is death, but the man here seems like he was just as much as a victim as she was. What was he supposed to do? Leave her unattended for three days? Lock her in her room and take off and fight the rut off? This is ridiculous!"

"The problem is that a promising young Witch is broken, and my instinct tells me to follow the law…"

"How old was the Warlord?"

"Eighteen."

"One of the short lived races?" Karla nodded. "Hmph. Still a baby, then."

Karla smirked. "Lucivar, compared to you, a Glacian octogenarian is still a baby."

Lucivar grinned back, revealing all of his (very sharp) teeth. "Kiss kiss."

Karla was reduced to such laughter that Deanna sat wondering why the Glacian queen had tears running down her cheeks.

* * *

"So, he's barely old enough himself, and she was underage. The mother was the one who sent them off together. I don't suppose that Karla would just consider banishing the woman?"

"She's going to make sure the woman can't hold a court so that more young ladies don't end up this way, but she isn't sure she wants to banish the woman, too. If this was a landen couple, this wouldn't be as much of an issue. We could say the parent was a fool for putting together two hormonal teenagers, but this is a natural thing when two people love each other. And if she _were_ a landen, she would be over the age of consent, so this wouldn't automatically be a rape trial. In fact, there wouldn't be a trial at all! Just town gossip." She furrowed her brow and kicked at a spot on the carpet as she thought.

"But we're talking about the Blood, and so there has to be some punishment," Daemon pointed out softly.

His wife nodded. "And that's the problem that Karla has. According to the law, she should be sentencing Hunter to death, but… Well, if this had been you and I, how would you want it to be dealt with?"

Daemon looked up sharply. "You mean when we met and _you were twelve_?" Jaenelle snickered quietly at his expression. "Warlord Princes are born and raised to live up to one fact: everything has a price. The price of your safety is our lives. The cost of the Court's safety is our lives. The cost of our children's safety is our lives. If we enter into a fight and lose some blood or a limb, we've been lucky because we expect to go in losing our _lives_, Jaenelle."

"This is a trial, not a fight, Daemon."

"I can guarantee you that to the Warlord, it's the same thing."

She looked up at him, and drank in the sight of him. Amber-colored eyes, warm as he gazed at her, the thick black hair, the hard lines of his face… She knew the rules. How many times had she had to remind her friends that everything had a price? But it was an easy rule to live by when it was your own life. It was much harder to live with when it was someone else's. Jaenelle pinched her lips. "I don't like this."

"I don't think Karla does either. That's why she came to talk to you."

She studied him a moment longer, weighing things silently. Then she straightened and headed toward him, giving him a soft kiss on his cheek. "I've made my decision. I'll go and tell Karla."

* * *

Death.

Hunter closed his eyes and waited for Karla to give him his punishment.

"How do you plead?"

He wondered how they would do it. Would he be beheaded? Would he be given over to the men in Karla's court and would they beat him to death? He'd heard stories of how the Arcerians killed people. In retrospect, nothing would be worse than ritual disembowelment.

"Guilty, your Majesty." The court erupted into talk, and he strengthened his voice to be heard. "I went into her rooms, and we… had sex." Sex. He had wanted his first time with Deanna to be anything, _anything_ but the rut! "I was not in sound mind, and she didn't fight me, but I don't think it was consensual. How could she have stopped me without risking her own life? I was in the rut! Every woman is trained to become passive in case she angers a Warlord Prince while they're in the rut!"

Karla glanced at Deanna, whose hands were clenched tightly together at her side. The young girl's eyes were filled with unshed tears. Every time she had tried to protest that it had been consensual, they had told her she was too young to understand. She wasn't too young to understand that the punishment for his mistake was death.

"You know what the cost is of breaking a witch back to her birthright jewel and for having sex with a woman before her Virgin Night."

"I know," Hunter said. He didn't lower his gaze from the Queen. His green eyes were calm and determined. Karla thought Lucivar would approve. How many times had she seen Lucivar go along with one of Jaenelle's schemes _knowing_ it would get him in trouble with their father, only to stand and receive his punishment with that same expression?

"You can't kill him! _Please_!" Deanna burst out. "I'm broken, but that's it! I'm still sane!" Her mother tried to put his arms around her daughter, to comfort her, but she pushed her away to stand on her own two feet. "Doesn't that count for something?"

"The prior Queen of Ebon Askavi and I discussed that matter, as you well know since you were at the table with us. If we allowed him to walk free because of the fact that you were not lost in the abyss, there would be others who might one day be freed the same way after having broken a woman for fun, as it was done in Tereiille and almost here in Kaeleer as well." Heads nodded around the room, agreeing with her.

Deanna broke down. The tears ran free, and once again her mother tried to put her arms around her daughter. This time, Deanna avoided her entirely and broke across the room, launching herself at Hunter and throwing her arms around him. There were gasps in the crowd at the sign of affection, and people shaking their heads as her sobs filled the room. Hunter took all this in before he slowly wrapped his arms back around her. Some people in the crowd threw him nasty looks for it, but he glared back at them.

"Let go of me, Deanna."

"No!"

"_Deanna_." She looked up when he said her name in that tone. He used the side of his thumb to wipe the tears away, and although he tried to speak to her softly, the silence in the room caused his words to carry. "What I did was wrong. Everything has a price, Deanna. Everything. Do you understand that? I wanted you, I couldn't control myself, and I got you—too early. Now I have to pay the price. That's the way the world works."

"That's not fair, and you know it!"

"Life isn't fair, Deanna."

"And you're going to _let_ them do it?" His silence was answer enough. She tightened her hold his shirt. "But those things you said—that I couldn't fight back, that I wouldn't have because it was the rut—you know those aren't true, right? I didn't fight or try to escape when I understood it was the rut that drove you because I _wanted_ to be there."

"Deanna, don't…"

"Don't what?" she snapped.

Hunter hissed at her, "Don't start to say that you allowed me into that room because you wanted it! What? You wanted to be there because you knew I needed you? I could have _run_ for three days straight and that wouldn't have caused you to have been broken back to your birthright jewel! I love you, and I hurt you, and…"

"Hunter?" Her grip on him loosened and her pale blue eyes widened. "Oh, Hunter. You said it. You finally said it."

His arms around her relaxed, and the faintest smile touched his lips. "Well, you've been saying it since you were six. Can't I say it at least once?"

"You pick the worse possible timing," her tearful smile wrung his heart.

"I love you, and I hurt you. I have to pay the price."

"Indeed you do." Karla's voice caused them to jump apart, and the Queen had to work hard not to crack a smile when she saw that their hands remained intertwined. "You broke her back to her birthright jewel, and there will be a price to pay—a very steep price, Warlord. But, having consulted others on this matter, it is strongly believed that condemning you to death would be enough of a blow that it _would_ break her completely and send her into the abyss." Deanna's grip on Hunter's hand tightened and he heard her inhale sharply. "Therefore, it is the decision of this court that you will follow the landen rules for an event such as this one, so that Deanna can continue to be a functioning member of Blood society. However, if _any_ harm _ever_ comes upon Deanna again, you _will _be held responsible. Protect her as you would your own life, Warlord, for she _is_ your life now."

Hunter was confused. "How do landens…"

"If a male landen takes a female landen's virginity, then the girl's father sees to it that they get married," Deanna informed him smugly.

Hunter's jaw dropped. Deanna laughed and grabbed him into a hug again. His arms closed around her again, and everything felt right in the world. She didn't notice as Karla came over to check on them.

"Are you satisfied with the price being paid, Warlord?" she asked him in an icy voice.

It wouldn't have mattered if he wasn't. She wouldn't have changed it just because he thought execution would be more fitting. In fact, Hunter thought, if Karla thought that marrying Deanna would be more of a punishment to him than execution, she would probably just laugh at him. Karla the Fair, indeed.

Hunter tightened his grip on the Witch in his arms. "It's a price I'm more than happy to pay."

* * *

End


End file.
